-DIARY LOG 8/23/2055-
Dear Diary,
Today was one of those days that just left me feeling completely used up—literally and emotionally. I was in a netrunning simulation, trying to push myself further than ever before. I was so focused on mastering the digital maze, that I barely noticed the heat building up in my cyberdeck. Next thing I know, it overheated and I felt this sudden, intense pain shoot through my neural link. It was like my whole world just shut down in a burst of red alerts and searing discomfort.
I slumped back in my chair, my head pounding and my heart racing from the shock. And there, just like always, my dad was watching. I could see him in the corridor, his expression as cold and calculating as ever. He didn’t even blink—he just nodded at the ripperdoc standing nearby, like he was checking off another box on his never-ending list. No “are you okay?” or any concern at all. Just a curt nod, as if I were nothing more than a replaceable piece of equipment.
The ripperdoc got right to work, and I felt the sting of the implant replacement. It was clinical, quick, and so impersonal that it made my insides twist with anger. In that moment, I couldn’t help but think: he sees me not as his daughter, but as just an asset to be maintained and exploited. My pain, my struggle—it’s all just collateral damage in his grand corporate plan.
Even after the new implant was in place and the simulation restarted, I couldn’t shake the bitter feeling in my gut. Every time I jacked back in, I felt like I was proving something to him, to the system, and maybe even to myself. But deep down, I know it’s not about my skills at all; it’s about making sure I keep working like a perfect, obedient tool.
I’m only 16, and sometimes it feels like I’m already more machine than human. I wish he’d see me as a person who’s hurting, not just as a number or a resource in his endless pursuit of efficiency and profit. It hurts so much knowing that to him, I’m nothing more than an asset—a tool to be used until I’m worn out.
I’m exhausted, both from the simulation and from feeling so empty. I just hope that someday, I can break free from this cycle. For now, I have to keep running, keep proving that I can handle it, even when it feels like I’m losing a part of myself with every test.
Until next time, Ellia
-Log End-
-Night City 2064-
I step into my modest apartment, letting the neon glow of Night City filter through the window in muted hues. The space is sparse, with functional furniture and a few personal trinkets, but it is mine: a small haven away from the relentless pace of the corporate world. I drop my bag by the door and let out a long, quiet sigh as I sink into my favorite, worn armchair. Why do I even keep reading my diary?
A soft chime on my comm alerted me to an incoming call. The holo-screen flickered to life, and there was Clover, radiant and perennially upbeat, her expression polished with optimism.
"Hey, Ellia!" she chirped. "How's your evening going?"
I managed a small smile, though my eyes betrayed a hint of weariness. "Oh, you know, same old day at the grind. What about you?"
Her eyes sparkled as she launched into her update. "I just finished the first phase briefing, and everything is rolling out perfectly! Our execs have put together a flawless plan. It’s all so seamless. Isn’t it amazing how organized everything is?"
I tilted my head, curiosity and skepticism mingling in my tone. "Seamless, sure, but sometimes it all feels a bit too scripted. Don’t you ever wonder if we’re just following orders without a say in it?"
Clover laughed lightly, dismissing the notion with practiced ease. "Ellia, you always see the dark side first! My parents, being top execs, taught me that structure is what makes progress possible. The first phase isn’t just about ticking boxes; it’s about showing we can excel within the system. They say discipline is the key to success, and honestly, I find comfort in that predictability."
I glanced out the window at the shifting neon skyline, my thoughts drifting between the security of routine and the restless whisper of something more. "I get that, but sometimes I can’t help but feel like there’s more to life than just following a script. I wish I could choose my own path, you know?"
Her tone softened, though her smile never wavered. "I understand, really. But sometimes, having a clear plan, even if it’s set by someone else, can be a kind of freedom in itself. We know what’s expected, and that clarity lets us focus on doing our best. The first phase is our chance to shine in a system that values excellence. And hey, it might even be fun once you let go of the doubt."
I sighed, a gentle mix of resignation and wistfulness. "Maybe you’re right. I suppose there’s a comfort in knowing exactly what to do, even if it means playing by someone else’s rules."
"Exactly!" Clover beamed. "Why not enjoy the ride for a bit? Trust in the process. Who knows, maybe tomorrow you’ll see the beauty in all this structure, and maybe even find a little joy in it."
For a few moments, the only sound was the distant hum of the city outside, a neon heartbeat reminding me of both possibility and confinement.
"Alright," I finally said, my voice soft yet carrying a note of tentative resolve. "I’ll try to see it your way for now. It might be nice not to fight every step."
"Perfect!" Clover replied, her smile brightening the holo-screen. "Let’s chat more tomorrow. For tonight, just relax and take it easy, okay?"
"Thanks, Clover. Talk soon," I replied, ending the call with a soft click.
Alone in the quiet of my apartment, I stared out at the shimmering city. Between the pull of structured routine and the whisper of uncharted possibilities, the night stretched out before me, a delicate balance between security and the unknown, each neon-lit moment hinting at a choice just beyond reach.
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The first thing I saw when I woke was the faint glow of my cyberdeck interface hovering just above my vision, a phantom reminder that it was 05:30 AM and that Phase Two: Combat Assessment awaited. I didn’t move immediately. Instead, I stared at the ceiling, my mind slow to catch up with reality. The familiar weight of another day pressed down on me, but this wasn’t just any day. This was the real test. Unlike the corporate theatrics of Phase One, this one demanded something tangible. Something real.
I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed, rubbing my temples before calling up my quickhack interface. Time to tune.
A digital overlay spread out before me, listing my arsenal in sharp, sterile lines of code. I scrolled through the list, checking parameters and adjusting values.
PING – A basic utility. Locate the enemy, map the network, and expose vulnerabilities. Not glamorous, but essential. I modified the range, giving myself a wider net to catch every target.
CONTAGION – A virus that spreads like wildfire, infecting one robot and forcing it to pass its corruption along. A slow burn, a creeping death. I increased its replication rate, ensuring it would jump from machine to machine even faster.
And then there was my newest addition.
SUICIDE – The ultimate override. The moment I activated it, the target would turn its weapon on itself, obliterating its own processors, severing its own connections, a complete erasure of will.
I had been custom-refining SUICIDE for weeks, testing it in private simulations. There was something raw about it, something that felt too close to what I wasn’t supposed to admit. But I liked it. It wasn’t just about efficiency; it was about control.
My fingers moved through the interface, making the final calibrations. By the time I finished, my hands were steady, my mind sharp. I’d known about this quickhack from the game, and it had cost a pretty penny from my allowance to buy the base model, but now it was mine.
Two hours later, I found myself standing with the other candidates in a stark, sterile briefing room. The hum of Biotechnica’s systems thrummed beneath our feet, and a single overhead light cast sharp shadows that only amplified the tension in the air. The walls were pristine untouched, as if they were meant to enforce a controlled environment.
I leaned against the back wall with my arms crossed, watching as the others filtered in. Some looked eager, their postures stiff with forced confidence. Others tried to hide their nerves, eyes darting toward the observation panels lining the upper room. The watchers were always watching.
A sharp click of boots silenced the murmurs as a Biotechnica proctor entered, a middle-aged woman in an immaculate white coat, her expression unreadable.
“Phase Two: Combat Assessment,” she announced crisply. “This exercise is designed to evaluate tactical adaptability, cybernetic integration, and quickhack proficiency under simulated combat conditions.”
A few of us straightened up, the ones who had likely spent years perfecting our quickhacks in corporate labs, eager to showcase our talents. I, however, remained still, letting her words settle over me.
“There are three key rules,” she continued. “One, no physical combat. Your skills will be measured solely on quickhacks. Any attempt at hand-to-hand combat will result in immediate disqualification.”
I noticed a tall, broad-shouldered man shift uncomfortably. His sculpted biceps betrayed his reliance on brute backup plans, now rendered useless.
“Two,” she went on, “your performance will be monitored and graded in real time. You will be evaluated on efficiency, control, and execution. Sloppy work is as bad as failure.”
I fought back a scoff. They didn’t want raw skill; they wanted precision, predictability, and compliance.
“And finally, three,” her gaze swept over us, cold and unwavering, “you are expected to treat this as a real engagement. Show hesitation, and you will fail. Show incompetence, and you will fail. Your opponents will not hold back, and neither should you.”
Silence fell.
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I watched as some candidates tensed, their breathing shifting in subtle ways. Some seemed to see it as a challenge, a chance to prove themselves; others paled at the implications. This wasn’t a simulation where experimentation came without consequence; this was an evaluation, a carefully curated display of who could be molded into something useful.
With a press on her holo-display, the proctor triggered a low hiss as a hidden door slid open behind her, revealing the entrance to the testing chamber.
“Step inside. Begin when prompted.”
We hesitated only for a moment before filing into our testing rooms. I was the last to move. I wasn’t nervous. I was ready.
Inside the testing room, I stood alone at its center. A massive glass panel separated me from the observers above, Biotechnica executives, corporate proctors, and technical analysts all gathered to watch. Their expressions were blank, their eyes cold. To them, I was just another asset, another candidate proving my viability in a controlled environment.
The room was sterile and minimal, featuring only polished floors and reinforced walls. My only company was the row of robots at the far end of the arena: six humanoid combat models, each sleek and deadly, their reinforced frames mimicking synthetic muscle, their optics glowing a steady red. They were programmed to fight, adapt, and withstand whatever I threw at them.
I flexed my fingers, feeling the cool metal of my cyberdeck hum against the back of my neck. The rules were clear: no weapons, no physical combat, quickhacks only. That was fine. I didn’t need a gun.
Then the overhead speakers crackled to life:
"Begin."
In an instant, the robots moved as one. I barely twitched as the first two sprinted forward, their mechanical limbs carrying them at inhuman speeds. I didn’t panic. I didn’t hesitate.
PING.
My optics flared as the battlefield mapped itself in real-time, network threads spreading like a web, each robot glowing in my vision, their connections pulsing with artificial life. I saw everything.
The first robot raised its weapon, preparing a simulated round. It never got the chance.
CONTAGION.
The virus struck instantly, latching onto its system like a parasite. The robot staggered, twitching violently as its coding warped, forcing it to turn its weapon on its closest ally. Simulated rounds sprayed through the second unit, sending it stumbling back as its synthetic body absorbed the hits.
I smirked.
"More."
The virus leaped from one machine to another, spreading like wildfire through their shared network. The third robot twisted unnaturally, its limbs seizing as it tried to resist, but there was no escape. In a heartbeat, the first robot collapsed, its systems fried, its body convulsing on the floor.
I didn’t stop.
One of the remaining robots lunged at me, its red optics locking onto my position. I could feel its gaze, the cold calculation of its programming, the decision to eliminate me as efficiently as possible. It wasn’t real, but the anger inside me was.
My fingers twitched.
SUICIDE.
The robot jerked mid-stride. For a moment, it almost hesitated. Then, as if controlled by an unseen force, it dropped's it's weapon, raised it's hands to it's head and twisted it's head off.
I exhaled slowly. My heart pounded, not from exertion but from the thrill of absolute control. The feeling crawled under my skin: they had no will, no choice. They obeyed my commands, not their own.
Another robot attempted to reboot, its optics flickering as it tried to purge the virus from its system. I tilted my head.
SUICIDE.
This machine grabbed its own arm and twisted. The sound of tearing synthetic fibers filled the room as it began ripping itself apart, servos screeching, metal tendons snapping under the force. One by one, it dismantled its own body until nothing remained but a hollow shell of what it once was.
A shiver ran down my spine, not from fear but from a dark satisfaction. Then, the final robot attempted to retreat, its corrupted system recognizing me as an existential threat.
"More."
I reached out with my cyberdeck, my thoughts weaving through the network until my will became absolute. The machine froze. In a single motion, it knelt, its servos locked, head bowed in surrender.
I inhaled slowly and stepped forward. The proctors were silent; the observers above didn’t speak or move. The test should have been over, but no one had called it. They were watching.
I stared at the machine, a creation designed to fight, to kill. Now, it knelt before me, completely at my mercy. For a moment, I wondered what would happen if I pushed further if I made it beg if I made it suffer. A flicker of something dark passed through my mind, something I didn’t want to name. My pulse thundered in my ears.
Then, just as quickly, I severed the connection. The machine collapsed where it knelt, lifeless.
The PA system crackled again.
"Phase Two complete. Candidate, exit the arena."
I straightened, rolling my shoulders as I left without glancing at the observers above; I didn’t need to see their faces to know what they were thinking. I had passed. I had won.
But as I stepped out of the testing room, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something inside me had shifted. I’d spent my life trapped, following orders, living in a world where control was an illusion. For the first time, I had tasted what it was like to own something truly. And now, I wasn’t sure I wanted to let that feeling go.
After leaving the combat arena, my mind still thrumming with the rush of power and the unsettling aftertaste of control, I found myself drifting into the sterile corridors of Biotechnica HQ. The neon grit of Night City seemed to fade into a wash of corporate white as I stepped into a waiting area, my pulse gradually slowing from its earlier frenzy. I couldn’t shake the lingering edge of that heady feeling, though I knew the next stage was less about raw capability and more about fitting into the carefully curated corporate image.
Before I knew it, I was ushered into a modest, overly polished interview room. The room was a study in irony: smooth, impersonal surfaces and sleek holo-screens displayed the company’s achievements like badges of honor. But what struck me most was the jittery figure seated behind a minimalist desk. He was a junior interviewer, his eyes darting around as if expecting a threat to materialize at any moment. It wasn’t hard to guess his mindset; his every word was laced with an unspoken fear of offending someone like me, someone whose reputation was backed by a man with the weight of Biotechnica behind him.
“Good afternoon, Miss Ellia,” he began, voice wavering slightly as he fumbled with his datapad. “I, uh, welcome to the interview. I mean, congratulations on completing the combat assessment. It was, uh, impressive.” His eyes kept flitting to the door as if expecting a corporate enforcer to burst in at any moment.
I arched an eyebrow and allowed a small, wry smile to play at the corners of my mouth. “Impressive enough for you?” I replied coolly, my tone measured but amused. Internally, I noted the irony: here I was, still riding the surge of adrenaline from making robots self-destruct, and now I was at the mercy of a man who seemed more terrified of my lineage than my abilities.
He cleared his throat, tapping nervously on his datapad. “Yes, of course. I mean, your, uh, technical proficiency is quite extraordinary. We’re all, er, very… honored to have you here. It’s just that, um… your father, well, ” He broke off, his eyes widening as if imagining the consequences of a misstep.
“Let’s just say I’m used to it,” I replied, leaning back slightly in my chair. The absurdity of the situation wasn’t lost on me. My father’s shadow loomed large over every interaction, even in a simple interview. “Now, why don’t you start by telling me how you see my role in this cybersecurity division?” I prompted, my tone even but with an undercurrent of irony.
He swallowed hard and adjusted his tie, a futile attempt to appear professional. “Certainly, Miss Ellia. We believe your unique… background, as well as your demonstrated skills, make you an ideal candidate to oversee our cyberdefense projects. Your experience, especially with advanced quickhacks like, um, ‘Contagion’ and ‘Suicide,’ positions you at the forefront of our defense protocols.” His voice wavered as he continued, “I’m, er, personally very reassured that someone of your caliber, and, well, with your family’s backing, will, um, maintain the integrity of our systems.”
I couldn’t help but chuckle softly. His every sentence dripped with deference and fear, not only of her capabilities but of her status. “I appreciate the vote of confidence,” I said, folding my arms. “But isn’t it a bit redundant to remind me of who my father is? I assure you, I’m quite capable of handling the responsibilities on my own.”
The interviewer’s hands trembled as he flipped through his notes. “Of course, of course,” he stammered. “I mean, your technical acumen speaks for itself. It’s just… sometimes our corporate structure gets a little… overawed by legacy, and well, ” His voice trailed off, the words clashing awkwardly with his need to maintain professionalism.
Silence hung between us for a moment, punctuated only by the soft hum of the holo-screens. I could sense his internal battle, a mix of admiration for my skills and a palpable fear of the repercussions if I were to step out of line. In that absurd, surreal moment, the interview transformed into a farce where corporate etiquette trumped any genuine evaluation of talent.
Finally, with a nervous laugh and a curt nod, he concluded, “I, I believe that’s all for now. We’ll be in touch regarding next steps.” His relief was almost tangible as he scrambled to end the session, fumbling with the interface as if eager to disappear.
As I left the room, the absurdity of the encounter lingered with me. The transition from the raw, visceral control I’d wielded in the combat test to this stilted, corporate charade was jarring. Yet, beneath the veneer of professionalism, I sensed that the interview was less about assessing my skills and more about managing the optics, ensuring that the machine remained intact, no matter how much chaos I could unleash when given a chance.
"Congratulations, Ellia, you passed the tests with flying colors," my father's measured tone began, cool and inflexible as always. His holographic image materialized in front of me, every pixel exuding authority and the clinical detachment of a man who ruled by corporate decree.
"I just left the interview," I replied, my voice steady despite the swirling conflicting emotions inside me. The absurdity of that encounter still echoed in my mind, a corporate farce that left little room for genuine conversation.
He inclined his head slightly, his eyes, though distant, seeming to burn with an unsettling mixture of pride and calculation. "Good. That was merely the preliminary rite of passage. Now, listen closely, your real assignment begins." His words carried the weight of a decree, a reminder that every step I took was being monitored, measured, and catalogued by the corporate machine.
"I’m assigning you to the cybersec division," he continued without preamble, his tone both cold and commanding. "You will oversee my latest project. There is a traitor within the team, someone whose actions have already begun to compromise our operations. I cannot trust anyone else to root out this betrayal. You, Ellia, are the one person I know I can rely on completely."
His voice shifted, a trace of something almost imperceptible in its softness, something akin to paternal concern layered over the ruthless imperatives of corporate survival. "Over the past week, I have monitored every network activity, every anomalous log, and yes, even your extra scans during the tests did not escape my notice. They left data footprints that I have traced, and I believe you have the acumen and the resolve necessary for this mission."
The air in the room seemed to thicken as he laid out the grim details. "The traitor has been siphoning critical data, leaking information, altering access codes, even manipulating internal communications to undermine our efforts. I have isolated several discrepancies that point to deliberate sabotage. Your role is to comb through these surveillance logs, monitor real-time alerts, and, if necessary, neutralize any threat with precision. I’m granting you full access to our override systems, priority channels, and direct lines to our security team."
A cold laugh escaped him, a laugh devoid of warmth, echoing the pervasive corruption that infested every corner of our corporate overlord’s empire. "This is the reality of Biotechnica, Ellia. It’s not just about advanced technology or innovative breakthroughs. It’s about maintaining absolute control over every facet of our operations. Loyalty is a currency, and trust, real trust, is a rarity. In this organization, every individual is a tool, a disposable asset to be leveraged for profit and power. I expect nothing less than ruthless efficiency from you."
He paused, his gaze intensifying as if he were peering directly into my soul through the digital veneer. "Remember, I monitor your every move. I know your strengths, your decisions, and even your missteps. Failure is not an option, disappointment, unacceptable. You must ensure that nothing disrupts our project. The integrity of our systems, and indeed the very future of this corporation, depends on your ability to root out corruption at its core."
His image began to waver slightly, the hologram flickering as if burdened by the gravity of its own message. "Ellia, this isn’t just another job, it’s the fulcrum upon which our future balance rests. You are my eyes in this labyrinth of deceit. Do not falter, and do not let the rot of corporate corruption consume what little freedom you have left."
The connection snapped off abruptly, leaving me alone in the sterile silence of the corridor. The weight of his words pressed down on me, a stark reminder that in Night City, every victory was tainted by the pervasive, insidious influence of the corpo machine. And as I exhaled slowly, I knew that my next steps would be defined not only by my own abilities but also by the relentless, unyielding grasp of a system that cared little for the individual, and everything for profit and power.